Grief is
Grief is remembering
Grief is the absence
Grief is too many blankets
Grief is missing the constant shedding
Greif is wondering if it was right
Greif is no more farrier or vet visits
Grief is like an ever-present ache in my chest
Grief is looking at a field and seeing missing silhouettes
Greif is not hearing soft calls and snorts of nighttime grazing
Greif is a saddle and a bridle, gradually collecting dust and cobwebs
Grief is a small pile of apple peelings, set aside out of habit
Greif is knowing that an imagined future of summer riding is now cruelly impossible
Greif is looking at old photos and wishing they captured more than image, the essence
Grief is a pair of darkened doors, both closed, as if they are mourning as well
Greif is wondering if it could have all been prevented if something had been even slightly different
Grief is a stall, empty of sawdust and swept entirely clean for the first time in ten years
Greif is the feeling that everything is different, but not in any way that can truly be described
Greif is wondering if the lost future could still be a possibility, in later years, after time has passed
Grief is knowing that the past can never return, and the pain of learning to move past two stall doors.